


Wished It Was You

by LearnedFoot



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aroused Victim, Bad Guys Made Them Do It, Canon Compliant, Extremely Dubious Consent, First Time, Forced Orgasm, Forced Voyeurism, Guilty Tony Stark, Iron Man Suit Kink, Kidnapped Tony Stark, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Manipulation, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, Punishment, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, SIM Also Does Some of The Doing, Specifically SIM Suit Kink, That Bad Guy Is SIM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:01:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21686467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LearnedFoot/pseuds/LearnedFoot
Summary: “You absolute bastard,” Tony hisses. “That’s what you wanted to show me? I cooperate or you keepmolestinghim?”Or: When Superior Iron Man sweeps into MCU-verse and takes over Tony’s life, he quickly realizes there’s one easy way to get Tony to cooperate. Easy, and fun. Well, fun for SIM, anyway.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark, Superior Iron Man/Peter Parker
Comments: 48
Kudos: 455
Collections: Consent Issues Exchange 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sheeon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheeon/gifts).



> Your freeforms and prompts were amazingly inspiring, to the point that I went out and read some SIM stuff so I could write this (though I ultimately played pretty fast and loose with that canon. Is this really how the SIM armor works? Maybe, maybe not. Please roll with it for porn and plot purposes). I really hope this gives you what you were looking for.
> 
>  _Content warning:_ As the tags suggest, this fic has all sorts of both dub-con and non-con content of various sorts. Peter is twenty.

After a week of staring at the blank grey walls of the small room he currently calls home, uselessly trying to figure out how to escape a prison designed by someone who knows exactly— _exactly_ —how he thinks, Tony is almost relieved when his doppelganger comes back. Sure, the dick’s not exactly nice as he drags him down the hall to another equally sparse and depressing room, and being bound to a chair by that slithering, gleaming armor of his isn’t Tony’s idea of a good time, but at least it’s a change of pace. And hey, there’s a TV, sitting in the middle of the room on a cart that looks like it was stolen from a middle school science class. Entertainment—that’s something.

The other Tony leans nonchalantly against the cart. He winks, a dashing gesture that means he’s about to put on a show.

It is, Tony has discovered over weeks of captivity, very odd to be imprisoned by someone whose mind you can basically read. Sometimes it feels like they can have entire conversations without talking.

“I haven’t change my mind,” Tony tells the other him. “I’m not going to help you.”

He’s not sure why he’s protesting out loud, other than pride. Yeah, mostly pride. That, and a sense that maybe the only reason Evil Clone over there is bothering to keep him alive is because he likes toying with him. Asserting his dominance. His _superiority_ , his favorite word. And if that’s the case, fine. Putting on a show runs in the multiverse family. If squirming a little keeps Tony alive long enough to figure a way out of this, squirm he will. He has no choice: this bastard is trying to take over his life. He only got that life back a few months ago himself, he’s rather fond of it. Sure, it fits a bit weird these days, but that doesn’t mean he’s ready to turn it over to the first sociopath wearing his face who wanders onto the scene.

And, okay, yeah, he has no fucking clue how he’s going to escape, not when his captor can predict his every move. But he doesn’t have a chance if he’s not alive. So here he is, squirming.

The evil him smirks, fiddling with something in his right hand. A remote. Must be for the TV.

“What’s this?” Tony asks, because he’s clearly supposed to, and playing along seems like the smart move for the moment. He would rather avoid antagonizing his way into being tortured. Again. Mr. Tough Guy seems to have given up on that method of information gathering after repeated attempts to beat security passcodes out of Tony got nowhere. He’s not eager to put it back on the table. “Gonna show me your latest propaganda? _Triumph of the Asshole_?”

The other Tony laughs. It’s cold, dark in a way Tony hopes his own laugh never sounded, not even at his drunkest or most despondent. If it did, he owes everyone who heard it an apology.

“There’s no reason to give you information about my plans. Rest assured they’re proceeding at a satisfactory pace.” He clicks a button on the remote and the screen flares to life, showing a high definition video of himself talking to Pepper and Morgan in the tower penthouse Tony reclaimed as his own after he came back to discover his home long sold. “No, I just thought you’d like to see how your loved ones are doing.”

Tony’s temperature drops, body flooding with adrenaline and fear, the horror of what he might see—his daughter blown to bits, ripped apart.

“No,” he gasps. He’d been counting on this fun house mirror version of himself to have enough humanity hidden somewhere behind those sadistic blue eyes that he wouldn’t be able to go that far, not with Morgan. And, if not that, he’d thought he’d at least want to avoid the scrutiny such a public death would bring. But there he is, on the screen, scooping her into his arms—

The panic is so intense, vision blurred, palms sweaty, throat dry, that it takes a few moments to register what he’s actually seeing: not torture or death, but a perfectly normal conversation. Pepper asks if he can switch custody days that weekend and reminds him about a bake sale they’re supposed to contribute to. On screen, he sees his fake self smile, almost warm, bouncing Morgan in his arms as he promises to make cupcakes that evening.

“You, bake?” Pepper laughs. “I’ll believe that when I see it. Store bought is fine.”

“I’ll bake,” the other him promises. “You forget, whole new me. Back and better than ever.”

Tony tears his eyes from the screen to look at his enemy, questioning. Why show him this?

“You thought I was going to hurt them.” No question there: he knows exactly what nightmares his theatrics provoked. “You misunderstand. The point of this particular exercise is to show you how little you matter. None of your friends miss you. They’re better off without you, actually. Everyone loves the new, improved Tony. You were so moody when you first came back. Unstable. But _now_ …”

He flicks through more videos, all taken in the tower, clearly from a surveillance camera. Laughing over a beer with Rhodey. A sit-down dinner with Happy (“He really loved that, asked why we don’t do it more often. You’re a pretty selfish friend, you ever think about that?”). A meeting with Fury, in which the other him somehow manages to get the director to laugh. More playing with Morgan.

“Throw on a pair of brown contacts, and no one notices a thing, except how much of an upgrade I am,” the other him gloats, pausing the video. “Except one person. Exactly one person had the audacity to ask if something ‘is up’ with me. Care to guess who?“

Tony doesn’t need to guess. There’s only one person who should’ve been on that video and wasn’t. His heart sinks as he answers, “Peter.”

“Very good. Yes, young Mr. Parker sensed things weren’t quite right. I surmise he thought my sudden and miraculous recovery from being a morose bore was a little _too_ miraculous. Makes me wonder how much you’d been laying on him. He’s only a sophomore in college, Tony. Not really appropriate, is it?”

Tony doesn’t have anything to say to that. Yeah, it’s inappropriate. He’d spent hours in the lab after he came back, tipsy and frustrated, banging away on suits and cars to work out his anger at having his life turned upside down while he was dead. And Peter was by his side for an unhealthy portion of those hours. He’d let the kid see it all, because he didn’t have the strength not to. Because Peter insisted on coming by, and Tony wanted him there so badly he didn’t do the adult thing and tell him to go focus on his schoolwork.

“If you hurt him…” It’s a useless threat, but Tony struggles against his bonds anyway.

“Hurt him?” God, it would be nice to rip that smug grin off that face; it’s somehow worse that it’s his own reflection. “Oh, no. I didn’t _hurt_ him at all. I simply distracted him. I think he quite likes the new version of you now, too.”

With a flourish, he turns the TV back on. It cuts to a video of him pressing Peter against a desk in Tony’s private lab, sucking on his neck. Peter’s head is thrown back—no, pulled back by a hand in his hair—eyes squeezed closed, mouth open in an O, a small moan escaping his lips.

He’s absolutely beautiful.

Tony can’t find the words to protest, mouth too dry, airways tightening. No, he can’t have, not this—

The version of him on the screen kisses Peter, pulling muffled gasps out of him, and Tony feels his dick twitch in his pants. No, nope, _no_. This is not going to turn him on. He rips his eyes from the screen, focusing on his enemy instead. Not that looking away masks the sounds of pleasure coming from Peter’s throat, needy whines that spark along Tony’s spine.

“He’s even better than you imagined,” his mirror self tells him. “Well, I assume you imagined. You can’t possibly have looked at that sweet little body and not had the same thoughts I did, am I right?”

“No, no, I—” But his voice is raspy. Not a lot, but enough that anyone who knows him—and who knows him better?—would recognize the lust.

“He’s very soft. And so pliant. _Obedient_. I mean, look at him, such a slut for you.”

Tony breathes in sharply through his nose and doesn’t turn back to the video. Does his best to ignore the effect hearing, “Mr. Stark, oh, _yes_ ,” has on his body: sweat beading at his forehead, muscles tightening in his gut. He’s getting harder by the second.

“No, really, _look at him_.” Cold armor slides up Tony’s neck, grabbing his head and twisting until he’s forced to face the screen. On it, Peter’s shirt has come off, revealing the body Tony had tried so very hard not to stare at whenever he changed in the lab to test out a suit upgrade. He’s just a little taller than he had been before everything, a little wider, but still so lithe, so small compared to Tony.

Tony, whose double’s hands are wide, gripping Peter’s hips in the video, pulling him close as he dips, running his tongue over Peter’s nipple. Peter writhes, riding the thigh the other Tony places between his legs. They’ve barely done anything at all, and he already looks close to coming, long hair sticking up at funny angles, hands clutching at Tony’s shirt, tearing it.

“Mr. Stark,” he whines, thrusting, visibly shaking. “Mr. Stark, Mr. Stark, _please_ , sir, _please_ —”

The Tony on screen lifts his head, one hand coming gently to Peter’s chin, clutching it, an echo of what his suit is doing to Tony right now. “What do you want, sweetheart? Just tell me what you want.”

Peter shakes his head; even on video, Tony can see him blush. Embarrassed, shy. He doesn’t want to say it. Tony’s fingers twitch, longing to reach out to him. If he’d been there, he would’ve smoothed his hair, kissed his forehead, told him it was okay, he knows, he knows how to take care of him, Peter doesn’t have to do anything he doesn’t want to, doesn’t have to say, Tony can show him—

The Tony on the screen, on the other hand, squeezes his chin tighter. “Come on,” he insists, edge to his voice, just the barest hint of a threat. “You’re a smart boy. You know what I want to hear.”

It’s cruel, cruel in a way Tony would never be—okay, no, he absolutely would, but not without permission—but Peter responds to it, eyes fluttering shut, hips bucking. That should not be searing hot, but it is; Tony’s pants flood with precome as his cock strains uncomfortably against the zipper of the jeans his captor has provided him.

“Please,” Peter whimpers. “Please, sir, I’m so close, please can I come?”

“Of course, my gorgeous boy.” Peter tenses up at the compliment, moving faster. The other Tony pulls him closer, encouraging him to rut against his thigh. “Well, go on.”

Peter does, head falling onto the other Tony’s shoulder, clinging to him, hips working, muttering a relieved stream of babble—“Thank you, ohmygod thank you, thank you Mr. Stark, oh wow, I can’t believe, I can’t, _thank you_ ”—until he goes stiff with a cry of pleasure that Tony is never going to be able to forget.

The video stops, frozen on the image of Peter with his eyes screwed tight in ecstasy.

Tony’s heart is racing; his hands grip the arms of the chair. He’s so hard it hurts. He gives himself a few seconds to get his breathing under control before he looks back over at his triumphant alter ego.

“You absolute bastard,” he hisses. “That’s what you wanted to show me? I cooperate or you keep _molesting_ him?”

“Molesting?” The other him as the audacity to roll his eyes. _Roll his eyes_. Tony suddenly understands why other people want to punch him so often. “I think it’s very clear that Mr. Parker enjoyed himself.”

Tony bites off a sarcastic reply. It’s not worth picking a battle over vocabulary. “Fine, whatever. But I’m right, that’s the deal here? I give you information, you leave Peter alone?”

“Oh, no. That won’t work. Don’t you think he’d wonder what was wrong?” The other him smiles, sharp and fake in a way Tony can feel in his own muscles, a smile made for the camera. The one he spent years flashing at paparazzi and women whose names he’d forget by the time Pepper swept them out the door the next morning. “Besides, why would I stop when the fun is just getting started? But you’re right, there’s a deal here. The deal is this: cooperate, and he gets the full lovers package. I’ll take it slow, treat him nice, flowers, the whole thing. He’s a virgin, did you know? Twenty years old, looking like that, and still a virgin. I think he was saving himself for you, even when you were dead. Isn’t that sweet?”

Tony’s stomach flips at the thought: Peter, as attractive as he is, perfect body and big brown eyes, turning down offers left and right, subconsciously holding out hope that somehow, impossibly, Tony would come back—

His dick throbs; he swallows back a moan. “He was probably just busy. Studying, patrols, it’s a lot.”

The other Tony tilts his head, shooting him a skeptical look: _You don’t really believe that_.

And the problem is, Tony doesn’t. Because he was there, in those months before this doppelmonster slipped through the cracks in the universe left by his resurrection and took over his life. He saw the way Peter looked at him, like he put the whole world right just by standing there. Felt his face press into the crook of his neck whenever they hugged, lips so close to grazing his skin.

He’s not an idiot. He knew. Not that the kid was a virgin, that’s news, but this monster is right: he knew he could have him whenever he wanted. But he hadn’t. He _hadn’t_. No matter how intensely his reincarnated body longed for touch. No matter how often his mind wandered, wondering what other uses Peter’s clever fingers, so helpful in the lab, could be put to. No matter how good he knew it would feel. He hadn’t, because he knew better.

There are so many reasons he never did what this monster did, never took what was in reach. He’s still reeling from Pepper: wife one day, married to someone else the next. His heart is too heavy with the life he lost. And Peter is far, far too precious to waste on sexual gratification.

The other him is still watching, grinning maniacally, like he can follow Tony’s thoughts from his face. He probably can.

“I hate you,” Tony tells him, pointlessly.

“You hate me for doing what _you_ are too cowardly to do.” The thought is accompanied by a dismissive shrug, as if it’s the most obvious truth in the world. “Here’s the other half of the deal: you know I’m not doing everything. That video was the whole event. Sweet thing wanted to get on his knees and suck me off right there, but I said we should wait. But you know the things I could do to that boy.” He bites his lower lip, exaggerated. “Could and would, happily. Just give me a reason.”

Tony tries not to think about what he might mean. The dreams that come unbidden: holding Peter down and pounding him until he screams, until he begs, until he cries. He doesn’t even want to know how the thoughts he’s tried to push back are magnified and distorted in the mind of his jailor.

He nods, a short acknowledgement that he understands the threat.

“Good.” The TV shuts off. “Now that we’re on the same page, how about you start telling me what I need to know?”

***

Tony tells him what he needs to know.

***

Back in his room, he doesn’t even get his pants all the way down before wrapping his hand around his dick, rubbing hard and fast, squeezing so tight it hurts as he comes with a shamed groan, filling his pants with a sticky mess of his own worst impulses.

***

The next few days are spent locked in his cell, eating dry toast and water, brainstorming increasingly desperate and nonsensical escape plans, and trying very, very hard not to jerk off thinking about that video.

He’s, like, eighty-five percent successful, if you only count what he does consciously. Which he does, because it’s not fair to blame him for what his traitor of a brain conjures up at night: placing him front and center of the show, so that it’s his hands tugging at Peter’s hair, his lips sucking on a neck that tastes, improbably, like pizza.

See? His brain is getting sexual desire and hunger all mixed up. Crossed wires, throbbing with every possible desire. It’s nonsense, it doesn’t mean anything. 

And the times he can’t resist, rubbing at himself as the memories come? What’s his excuse for that?

He tries. He tries to come up with one: boredom and exhaustion and good old fashioned lust. Who wouldn’t be turned on by what is essentially live action porn of themselves? But those excuses are even more pathetic than his plans for escape, so after the third time he comes with Peter’s name on his lips he stops attempting to explain himself. He’s fucked up in the head, that’s all there is to it. He’s turned on by a kid he’s known since he was fourteen. Yeah, he’s not fourteen now, but he’s only twenty. Better, but not by a lot. It just is what it is.

It’s not like it matters right now, anyway. Not when he’s captured by the one person who might actually be smart enough to keep him that way. He’s been denying this particular moral quandary for months; confronting it head on can wait a bit longer.

***

But self-acceptance of his numerous and ever-growing list of flaws doesn’t make it easier to handle Evil Clone dragging him back into the video room.

“I don’t need to see this,” Tony protests as the screen flickers to life with the image of Peter, naked, sprawled in the other Tony’s lap, back resting against his chest. The Tony on screen is fully clothed, one arm looped around Peter’s waist, hand wrapped around his dick, slowly stroking.

“No?” Here in this cold room, Tony’s double is wearing a satisfied smirk that says he knows he’s in complete control. “Don’t you want proof I’m treating him well?”

That’s not really why he’s showing him this. He’s showing him because he knows the effect it will have: he knows Tony is already getting hot, sweat sticking to the backs of his thighs, cock filling. He knows that even when Tony shuts his eyes, he can’t forget Peter’s face contorting in pleasure, can’t block the sound of his voice getting high as he gasps, “Mr. Stark, please, please, sir, let me come.”

And he knows, worst of all, that Tony isn’t strong enough to resist watching Peter fall apart. That he can’t help opening his eyes to drink in the way his back arches as come covers his stomach. That he loves his unabashed moan, too turned on to be shy. As Peter slumps, satiated and soft in his arms, the other Tony glances up to the camera and winks.

Tony wants to vomit. He wants to cry. Mostly, he wants to come.

But he can’t do any of that until he answers a few more questions.

***

Tony doesn’t let himself jerk off when he’s shoved back into his cell. Instead, he yells, he screams at nothing, he punches his mattress until his hand is bruised and his fingers can barely uncurl.

Which means it hurts a lot when he gives in and jerks off a few hours later. But that’s good. It should hurt. He deserves that.

***

The monster who’s taken over his life keeps it up. Of course he does. Occasionally, he comes by with videos of other people, proof that he’s leaving Tony’s other loved ones alone. Better than leaving them alone: treating them well, winning them over when they don’t even know they need to be won.

But mostly, it’s Peter. Apparently their lab hookups have become a regular thing. At first it’s more humping and hand jobs, Peter clinging desperately to this person who looks so exactly like Tony, bashful and enthusiastic and wanting. He gets better at the begging, doesn’t need to be prodded. He still flushes every time he asks to come, but he does ask. He’s a quick learner—and, as Evil Clone keeps pointing out, with words that worm their way into Tony’s dreams, he’s very eager to please.

The first time the other Tony gives him a blowjob, Peter looks like he’s going to pass out in the middle of the lab, entire body glowing red with what Tony can only assume is a mix of embarrassment and arousal. He comes in under a minute. Of course he does. If there’s one thing watching these videos has taught Tony—other than that he is a very bad person—it’s that Peter’s powers translate to hypersensitivity. It’s adorable. If he were the one there, he would assure him how adorable he finds it, how the idea of making Peter come with so little stimulation turns him on. He’d explain how badly he wants to test the limits, make him come again and again and again, until he can’t take it anymore. If Peter wants. When Peter is ready.

That’s what _he_ would say. That’s what being nice would really mean. But when Peter covers his face in his hands and babbles an apology, the other Tony, the one who is actually there, just pats him patronizingly on the head and says, “It’s fine. You’ll get better, learn to last longer.”

Maybe Tony is reading cruelty into his tone, but it seems to him that there’s an implied “ _…or else_ ” at the end of the sentence.

“You’ll get better?” he repeats, glaring at his captor. “That’s your idea of nice?”

His protests are met with a glib wave of the hand. “Would you like to see my idea of not nice for comparison?”

Tony sags in his seat. He doesn’t bother to answer. They both know what he’d say: _No, please, no, anything but that._

***

Two days later there’s a new tape, different this time. For once, it doesn’t start in media res, Peter already lost in lust. Instead, it opens with Peter approaching the other Tony, hands clutched behind his back. From the high angle of the security camera, Tony can see his fingers fidget, curling around each other.

“Um, Mr. Stark. I was, uh, I was thinking…”

The other him smiles warmly. It’s so false, so unlike anything Tony has ever seen on that face in their interrogation sessions, that it makes him want to never smile again, at anyone, under any circumstance. “Are you going to finish that thought, or do I have to guess?”

Peter ducks his head, blushing. God, he blushes so much on these videos, more than Tony’s ever seen him blush before. But then, they were never sleeping together before. “Yeah, so, uh. Yeah, okay. Um. Right. So, first, I want to say I really, really appreciate all the…everything we’ve been, um, you know. Doing. Obviously. I enjoy it so much. I mean, _so much_.”

The other him chuckles. “I normally prefer my lovers be able to say the words out loud, but I’ll make an exception. Is there a point here, Mr. Parker?”

Peter bites his lip, fingers clutching each other in a death grip. _Be nicer!_ Tony wants to shout at his double, but there’s no point. It’s already happened.

“Yeah, sorry, of course. My point is that I really appreciate it but I was wondering if I could, uh, return the favor sometime? Like maybe right now? I think I’d really like to do that.”

For just the briefest moment, not even a second, the Tony on screen flicks his eyes to the camera. Then he’s back to Peter, face sliding into a picture of concern. “Of course I’d like that, Pete. I’d like that very much. But are you sure you’re ready?”

Peter nods, determined. “Yeah. Totally. I mean, I know I’m pretty inexperienced and stuff, but I’m not a kid anymore, Mr. Stark. And I really, really want to give you a, um...” He takes a deep breath, and then, steeling himself, finishes the thought: “A blowjob. I really want to give you a blowjob.”

Again, that quick glance at the camera. “Well, okay then. How could I say no to that?”

Of course the bastard positions everything so Tony has a perfect view as Peter carefully takes a cock that looks exactly like his into his mouth. He starts slow, and for a little while, the other Tony lets him: spreads his legs wide on the couch, places his hand gently on the top of his head. Allows him to set the pace, appearing to enjoy settling back to be sucked and licked.

Peter starts with the head, taking a tentative taste, then tries tracing the whole thing with his tongue, even stopping to lap at the balls. He makes a face at the taste, and Tony feels a flutter of affection for him, the way he keeps going, experimenting. Trying to figure out what he likes, and what this other Tony likes. Tony can practically see his mind working, cataloging. It reminds Tony of the first time he gave head, way back in college. Curious, exploratory.

God, he would let Peter explore for as long as he wants. He’d let him take notes, watch the play by play after. Whatever he needs to be comfortable. He’d give him tips and tricks, of course, but he bets the kid could come up with things he’s never even thought of with half the chance. He’s like that.

Tony’s so lost in fantasies of how things could be that he almost misses when the mood on screen shifts. The other him has lost patience, growling, “Okay, enough. How about you actually put it in your mouth?”

It’s crude, but Peter quickly follows the suggestion, swallowing him down, bobbing with the broken rhythm of someone who’s never done it before. The other him doesn’t do more than grunt, but Tony can tell it feels good, can read his pleasure in the way his shoulders tense. The hand on Peter’s head curls into his hair, tugging. Peter moans at that, one of his hands disappearing between his legs.

“Oh, you like that?” the Tony on screen taunts, pulling harder. Peter moans again, makes a movement that would be a nod if he didn’t have a dick in his mouth. Tony’s dick in his mouth. “Of course you do. Such a pretty slut.”

Peter’s back goes stiff, his movements stop. He whines, and Tony can’t tell if it’s protest or arousal. Maybe both. The other him doesn’t seem concerned about it; he takes Peter’s stillness as an excuse to thrust his hips forward, pushing himself further into his mouth. Peter gags and jerks away.

“Sorry,” he whispers, so quiet the video almost doesn’t pick it up. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting…Sorry.”

 _It’s okay_ , Tony would say. _We can stop_.

That’s not what the Tony on screen says. No, he spreads his legs and gestures at his dick, thick and hard and shining with Peter’s spit. “Well, next time you’ll be expecting it. Come on now.” Peter looks like he’s going to protest, but then the other Tony adds, “Unless you’re backing out? Which would be fine, of course.”

Except he sounds like it would be anything but fine. Tony can see Peter wilt at the idea of disappointing him. “No, yeah, no, of course not. I…of course not. Sorry.”

The dickwad lets Peter go back to setting the pace for a few minutes—or maybe less, but it feels like minutes to Tony, each second watching Peter try to swallow the other him down stretching on forever, sympathy and want burning his own throat—but it’s not long before he starts thrusting again, pushing into Peter’s mouth, hand tight in his hair.

“There you go,” he coos when Peter gags but doesn’t pull away, clearly fighting his own instincts. “Good boy. You take me so well.”

That’s what does it: Peter whimpers and relaxes, mouth going slack as the other Tony fucks into it, rough, ignoring the drool sliding down Peter’s face, the tears spotting his cheeks. Peter doesn’t seem to mind, groaning as Tony praises him for being so good, so obedient _._

He pulls out as he comes, spattering Peter’s face. Then he holds his tip to Peter’s lips, demanding he lick him clean. He does, hand down his pants, arm muscles tensing and loosening as he works himself. When Evil Clone finally pulls his dick away, freeing Peter’s mouth, he begs, “Sir, can I, please?”

The other Tony gives permission with a quick, uninterested hand gesture; Peter falls apart on the floor, letting out a sound close to a sob as he covers his own hand with his come. There are tears in his eyes as he shuffles forward to rest his head in the other Tony’s lap.

The video pauses, an accusation: he, Tony, did this. Push back against his captor at all, and this is what happens.

“He’s not going to put up with that,” Tony says, confident in a way he doesn’t feel. Because the evidence seems to suggest that actually, yes, he will. “If you treat him like that, he’s not going to stay.”

“No? Really? Because this is the next day.”

The video starts again. A new clip, another day. Peter is fully dressed, in one of those science pun t-shirts Tony makes fun of him for still wearing but secretly finds endearing. The other Tony is showing him something. His suit, Tony realizes. The silver monstrosity that’s currently binding his hands, that slides and reshapes itself unlike anything Tony has ever seen, not even with his best nanobot work.

Fake Tony introduces the thing as if he’s just invented it, which makes sense. He wouldn’t want to show up with it out of nowhere; that might raise suspicions. Smart. So smart. Of course he’s smart, he’s Tony. Lack of intelligence is one of the few things that doesn’t make the ever-growing list of his flaws. Right now, he kind of wishes it did.

On the video, Peter is going crazy over the suit, all enthusiasm and scientific inquiry. It makes Tony’s heart ache. Since his captivity, he’s only experienced the kid in these videos: stripped, moaning, young and unsure and overwhelmed. He’s hot like that, hotter than anything Tony has ever seen (god, he hates how true that is), but it’s not until this moment, watching those big eyes go wide with something other than lust, that Tony realizes how much he’s missed the rest: not Peter as a sexual object, just Peter. His smile, his excitement, his unending joy in discovery. 

“Wait, is this…is this based on Venom?” Peter asks as the thing twists around his wrist. “It is, isn’t it? You’ve done something with what we learned about symbiotes!”

“You’re so clever,” the other Tony praises, and Peter blossoms, back straitening. “But enough about the science. I have other ideas about how this thing could be put to use.”

***

Those other ideas end up with Peter on his knees, wrists wrapped together behind his back, the other Tony coming down his throat with brutal thrusts.

And Tony has to admit, if Peter minds that his doppelganger makes him gag, the spit and tears and rough treatment, he isn’t showing it. He crawls into the other Tony’s arms after, coming with a shout as soon as fingers touch his dick before burrowing into his embrace. He whispers “thank you” with a voice so hoarse he can barely form the words.

***

Peter likes it rough. That’s a fact Tony knows, now. He’d really rather not, it does all sorts of things to his body, but he does.

But he also knows something else: that armor works unlike anything he’s ever seen because it _is_ unlike anything he’s ever seen. It’s based on the symbiotes, those creepy, crawly, body-snatching parasites Peter had to deal with while Tony was six feet under. One on the long list of things that wake him up at night, panicking over the many ways he wasn’t there to protect the person he’d once promised himself he’d keep safe at all costs.

He tries to remember everything he read about the aliens back when he was first resurrected. He’d poured over the files in endless rounds of self-flagellation, but he’d been busy pouring glasses of whiskey, too. He’s not sure he has everything straight, and either way, it’s not like he knows exactly what the other him as done with the information.

But. He knows some things, like that the aliens use a psychic link of some sort. And he can make some educated guesses, because he knows how his enemy thinks. Obviously. Because they are the same person.

He comes up with a plan. It’s not a great plan. It’s a plan made up of a patchwork of best guesses and sheer hope. But it’s the best plan he has, and he’s pretty sure a better one isn’t coming anytime soon.

***

So the next time he’s bound to the chair, hands held down by flowing metal, brain assaulted by the image of Peter on his knees, he tries. He reaches out with his mind, asking the suit to listen, to hear him, to recognize him, to loosen, to let him go.

For one blazing moment of hope he feels it answer back, a whisper across his mind: not words, but an acknowledgement. It hears him, it feels him. The metal on his wrist flows, pulls away—

And tightens, crunching down so hard he screams.

“You should not have done that,” the other him hisses, before something hard hits his head.

***

Tony wakes up in his cell. He’s been out long enough that his stomach is rumbling. Normally by the time he’s really hungry, there’s food. Not much, but something—enough to keep him going. This time, there’s none. His head still hurts. It’s easier to pass out than worry about any of it.

***

When he wakes up again, it’s only for long enough to haul himself over to the tiny excuse for a bathroom, where he relieves himself and then heaves stomach acid into the toilet. He doesn’t even make it back to his bed before the world goes black.

***

The next few days pass like that. At some point, someone gives him a slice of bread, a little water. Not enough. At another, he’s dragged down the hall to a shower. They let him do that once a week, men in dark clothing leading the way, expressionless, always keeping a gun on him. The first time, he’d joked and wagged his dick at them, anything to try to get a reaction, figure out if these stoic guards still have their minds, or if his double has done something to them, too.

After the first few weeks, he’d given up on that. Now, he can barely keep himself standing. His hands shake so hard he drops the soap three times before he finally gets himself something resembling clean.

He’s not entirely sure why they bother. They just throw him back in the same dark cell with the same tiny, dirty mattress. At least without water pouring over his skin he can sleep again.

***

Here’s the thing: he’d rather be passed out than think about what his failed escape attempt means for Peter.

***

He’s not sure how many days pass before they finally give him a real meal, chicken soup and a big glass of milk. He scarfs it down because he’s human enough not to be able to resist, but he knows, even as he’s eating, that today is the day he finds out how terribly he fucked up.

As he’s dragged back to that room, the one with the video, he wonders if he’ll be able to forgive himself.

***

Somehow, he’s not surprised by what the video shows. Maybe because he’s seen it before, in the dark recesses of his brain: flashes of fantasy he let himself indulge late at night, back when he thought all fantasies were created equal because none of them would ever happen.

Peter is spread face down across a desk that’s been wiped clear of papers and tools. His hands are bound behind his back by the suit, that fucking suit that can read minds; the desk is tall, tall enough that his toes just barely scrape the ground, not enough to give him purchase. The other Tony is spanking him with swift, sharp strikes, leaving red marks across his ass.

Tony is instantly hard, and he’s never hated himself more.

“Fifty-five!” Peter counts, voice catching with pain. “Fifty-six.”

The other Tony didn’t say a word before turning on the video. No context, no explanation for how he got Peter into this position. But one thing is very clear: whatever Peter originally agreed to, he’s not having fun anymore.

“Mr. Stark, _please_ ,” he pleads, looking over his shoulder, and there’s no trace of the longing that’s usually embedded in his begging. This isn’t playful: he actually wants it to stop. “I’m sorry, whatever I did, I’m sorry.”

The Tony on the screen looks straight at the camera before replying, cold as possible, “Ten more for complaining, Parker. And keep counting.”

Tony sees Peter’s face scrunch, head tilting up, as if trying to follow the other Tony’s gaze. He tugs at his restraints, using his strength, really, honestly trying to break them. Then an extra tendril slides down his back, over his balls, around his dick, hanging heavy between his legs. It does something Tony can’t quite make out, but it must feel good, because the next sound Peter makes isn’t a protest at all. It’s a sound that puts fire in Tony’s gut, wrenched and wrecked and overwhelmed with pleasure.

The hand comes down on Peter’s ass again with a loud thwack. He gasps out, “Fifty-seven.”

***

By the time it’s over, Peter has counted to seventy-five, and the suit has wrung an orgasm out of him, and then another soon after. He’s a sweating, sobbing, trembling mess, and when he reaches for the other Tony, clearly expecting something—maybe a kiss, or a compliment, an explanation for why things escalated so quickly—he’s met with a sneer.

“Clean yourself up,” the Tony on screen says, tossing a shirt in his direction with unnecessary force. “We’re done for today. I’ll see you back here tomorrow, yes?”

Peter sniffs and nods, wiping his face with the shirt. But as he hastily pulls it back on, Tony thinks he catches him looking just a little bit confused.

The video stops. The other him fixes Tony with a look that needs no words. It simply says: _See?_

***

He doesn’t ask any questions, just deposits Tony back in his room to hate himself.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s days before Tony hears from his doppelganger again. Days of stale bread and worrying the evil twin has finally decided keeping Tony around isn’t worth it. That he’ll be left to die. That, worse, if he’s left to die, the other him might conclude there’s no reason to keep Peter around, either.

Because that’s one way they’re different. Yeah, sure, Mr. Alternate Universe looks at Peter and sees someone he desires. No way is this whole setup just about torturing Tony. His mirror self must feel the same hunger Tony has felt since the first time he saw Peter after coming back: a hook deep in his gut, drawing him to the cut of that jaw, the place where his neck meets his shoulder, the wavy hair that’s gotten long and bouncy in college-aged disarray. The bastard sees something precious and beautiful, and he wants it. Wants to break it a little, too. Probably more than a little, actually, since he tends to take Tony’s darker cravings and multiply them.

But what he doesn’t have, what he can’t possibly have, is the rest of it. The part where Tony’s heart misses a beat when Peter talks science, because here’s someone who wants to get lost in the lab almost as much as he does, who’s smart enough to keep up with him most of the time. Or the part where he watches his patrol footage and is torn between ripping into him for taking risks and telling him he’s proud, so proud, so fucking proud of the hero he’s become: smart and strong and good in a way Tony didn’t know he finds attractive until now. Or the part where the one thing he wants to do at the end of another long day of being alive in a world that no longer makes sense is lounge on the couch and watch whatever movie Peter picks, even if he calls it old when it’s only half Tony’s age.

For Tony, there’s no question: there will always, always be a reason to keep Peter around. Keeping Peter around is the entire point, the entire reason he never did any of the things his mirror self has done. As much as he wants him, it’s not worth losing him.

But the other Tony? There’s no way he feels any of that; all he sees is a pretty toy. And Tony knows how he is with toys. He gets bored of them quickly.

So yes, he’s worried.

***

Tony isn’t great at keeping track of the time down in his little dungeon, but he’s pretty sure it’s exactly a week later that he’s escorted out of his room by the men with guns. He’s confused—he just showered yesterday, and that’s the only reason they ever let him leave his cell, except for the interrogations. But they march him beyond the video room, and the one he’d been tortured in, back at the start. He’s taken all the way down the hall, around a corner, then another, further into the bowels of his prison than he’s ever gotten before. To an elevator. _Into_ the elevator.

Wait. Wait just one second. He recognizes this elevator.

It’s the tower elevator. _It’s the tower elevator_.

Which means…

It means he’s been in the basement of his own tower this entire fucking time.

Jesus fuck. That’s messed up.

“I’m going to die, aren’t I?” he asks the mystery men with forced cheer as the elevator hums quietly upward. “That’s why he’s letting me out? To kill me? Though, you’d think he’d want to do that downstairs. Isn’t the whole idea no one knows he’s not me? So public execution won’t help anyone. Unless someone’s caught on, so he’s going to say _I’m_ him. That _would_ be very dramatic. I’d watch that movie.”

Nothing. He’s getting nothing from these guys. Great.

After an interminable ride, chattering into silence to distract from the cold block of fear in his stomach, the doors slide open onto the penthouse. _His_ penthouse, with the warm light and sleek modern furniture Pep picked out for him, a gesture of reconciliation, an apology for the whole remarriage thing. His penthouse, with its white couch—

With its white couch where his doppelganger is currently sitting in his gleaming menace of a suit, blue eyes startling in the bright light. Peter is naked on his lap, the other Tony’s metal-clad hand leisurely stroking his swollen cock. Tony is reminded of one of the earliest videos. But this time, instead of moaning in pleasure, Peter is silent, face set in a determined frown. His arms are bound behind his back by a thin line of rope extending from the suit.

“Ah, Tony, glad you could finally join us.” Evil Clone pushes Peter unceremoniously to the side—he teeters, almost tipping over—and stands, arms spreading wide. Magnanimous. As if this is a nice dinner party. “You can go,” he adds to the guards, who retreat into the elevator. The doors slam shut.

Silence settles; all that’s left is the pounding of blood in Tony’s ears, the panic thrilling up his throat, twining around his esophagus, choking him. He’s suddenly very certain of two things. One: he is going to die here, today. Two: he is going to be forced to do horrible, wonderful, awful things first.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y.?” he tries, voice strained to the point of being barely audible. “F.R.I., now’s the time for Code Iron Menace.”

He doesn’t really expect it to work, so when the only response is a hollow laugh from his counterpart, he’s more numb than disappointed.

“You didn’t actually expect that to work,” the evil him voices, pointlessly. He casually lifts his arm, aiming a blaster at Peter’s head. Tony flinches; Peter doesn’t, just looks at it and raises his eyebrows. He hasn’t, Tony realizes, met his eyes yet. “I haven’t actually decided if I’m going to kill Mr. Parker here. You should probably strive not to make the decision easier for me. Unless you don’t care what happens to him after you’re dead, which I would understand. Really, if you’re not here to masturbate over him, what’s the point?”

Peter looks at his feet, flush rushing up his chest and neck, blooming into splotchy red across his face. It’s even more attractive in person.

Fuck his brain for noticing that. Fuck it so hard.

“Okay, so what’s the deal here. You going to kill me in front of him? Teach me a final lesson?” Tony knows his bravado is fake; it might work on someone else, but he’s not going to fool himself. Probably won’t fool Peter, either. Still, not trying at all would feel worse. “Gotta say, professor, I feel like I’ve already absorbed the point. You’re all the worst parts of me, I am my own downfall, blah, blah, blah. This feels a bit on the nose.”

It’s weird, being the recipient of his own unimpressed glare. It’s very scathing. His double is silent for just long enough to be disconcerting before replying, “Actually, the one learning the lesson today is Peter.” The gleaming tendril of suit coiled around Peter’s arms tightens; he jolts, making a small, pained noise. “It turns out your protégé is ceaselessly, stupidly loyal. It would be cute if it weren’t so annoying.”

Oh, Peter. What did he do?

Tony forces himself to look back to the couch, ignoring the alluring swath of Peter’s naked skin in favor of focusing on his face. He’s steely, lips pressed together, throat bobbing as he swallows. He meets Tony’s gaze, finally, and to Tony’s surprise he can’t read his expression. Peter’s normally so open, every thought fliting across his features, excitement or distress—or awe, or admiration, or arousal, so clear even through the videos. But all Tony can make out now is determination. But for what? To make it through? Is that the most he hopes for?

“But it is very annoying,” the other him continues when no one else says anything. Hating silence, wanting to fill the room at all times—Tony knows the feeling. “I found him poking around the security system this morning. Something about how he knew I couldn’t possibly be you, because you would _never_ treat him the way I did.” His mouth twists around the word _never_ , spitting it out like something rotten. “I thought it would be fun to show him how wrong he is.”

Yeah, this is about exactly what Tony expected. He wants to say something, something brave or reassuring or—anything. Anything that would make him sound like the guy Peter thinks he is: the hero he wanted to be like as a teen, the mentor he thought was worth sticking by even when he rose from the dead a self-pitying mess. But Tony had never been that guy, not really. He’d known it even back when they first met, long before he couldn’t stop jerking off to images of his mentee being seduced by his own evil twin.

Man. When he puts it like that, he is really fucked up, isn’t he? Which is exactly why he can’t figure out what he can say to make this better.

He doesn’t have to, though, because Peter clears his throat and, with a calm, steady tone to match his calm, steady gaze, says, “This is stupid. Whatever you make him do, I know it’s not really him. I can literally see the gun pointed at my head.”

Evil Clone laughs, deep, really amused. “Oh, but that’s just not true, is it? Go on, tell him, Tony. Tell him how much you enjoyed watching me touch him. How you wished it was you shoving your cock down his tight throat.”

He waves his arm, a threat. Tell him, or he gets hurt. Yeah, no shit. As if Tony needs the reminder. Peter’s expression changes. Not much, just a slight drawing in of his eyebrows, but enough to move from confident to confused. “Mr. Stark?”

“Kid, I…” Tony can’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to. His tone has already given everything away.

Peter goes even redder; Tony can physically see the breath catch in his throat, chest heaving. He wishes he could understand what’s going through his head, but he’s wearing that same unreadable expression as he says, “Fine. Great. Even better. So he wants to fuck me. Amazing, I want to fuck him. I don’t see how it’s punishment to be with the person I _actually_ want to be with.”

“I never said punishment,” the other Tony replies patronizingly. “I said _lesson_. We’re going to compare and contrast.” He sweeps away from the couch, flopping into an armchair a few feet away, the thin line of metal connecting him to Peter unfurling as he goes. There’s already a glass of something dark on the small side table beside the chair, as if he’s planned for this. He gestures from himself to Tony. “Your precious Tony here is going to take your virginity, just like he’s always wanted. Then I’ll demonstrate how much better you have it with me.”

His eyes meet Tony’s, and the point could not be clearer: he’s not going to be nice. Fuck ‘lesson.’ This obviously is a punishment, and not just for Peter. In fact, mostly not for Peter. Peter is, as ever, an afterthought. A toy in his games.

But he’s not an afterthought for Tony. He looks away from his enemy, back to the person he wishes he could keep safe. The person currently naked and bound on his stupid white couch, where they used to sit watching movies while Tony quietly downed too many drinks and pointedly did not think about doing exactly what he is about to be forced to do.

He still doesn’t have anything to say. Again, it’s Peter who finds the words, brown eyes burning bright in the flush red canvas of his face: “Mr. Stark, it’s okay. It’s really okay.” He almost sounds sure of himself, almost hides the tremor, the small break on the second _okay_.

Almost.

Tony should fight. He should find a way to fight this. He should not follow his double’s impatient gesture, should not join Peter on that couch. But he’s too aware of the gun still trained at Peter’s head, the armor that could rip them both in two in a moment. Too aware of his inadequacies in the face of that, wearing nothing but the sweats this monster gave him. Cut off from his tech, his tools, anything. Peter’s the one who could fight, but that’s why he’s the one who’s tied up.

Which is how he finds himself sinking to the couch, inches away from Peter, staring into his eyes, trying very hard to pretend, just for a second, that a man wearing his face isn’t sitting feet away, threatening both their lives.

He wishes he could take Peter’s hands, but they’re behind him. He tries gripping his shoulder instead, but that feels uncomfortably parental given the situation, so he settles on resting his fingers lightly on his thigh. Peter glances down, tongue flicking across his lips.

“So, I make a pretty terrible villain, huh?” Tony tries, conversationally. As if this is all no big deal. Just an odd quirk of life, getting captured by your evil alternate self and forced to—god, he doesn’t even want to think it. Forced to violate one of the most important things in his life.

Peter’s eyes bounce to their captor, then back to Tony. “Actually, you’re really good at being a villain. That’s kind of the problem.” He smiles at his own joke. Just the tiniest bit, but it’s enough to break Tony’s heart. He hadn’t realized how much he loves that smile until this very moment. He knew he liked it, of course, knew it lights up the room, makes his stomach do stupid swoopy things it has no right to do. But he hadn’t known it could be like this, like air while he’s drowning, like the best thing he’s ever seen.

On impulse he leans forward, planting a kiss at the corner of Peter’s mouth, right where that smile curves up.

Instantly, his mind comes up with excuses: it’s because he knows he has to, it will be better if he doesn’t wait for Spawn of Satan over there to force his hand, it’s nice to have the illusion of choice. But who is he lying for? All of that is true, but none of it matters. The darker, deeper truth is he did it because he wanted to.

He pulls back immediately, ready to rip his own lips off. But then he sees Peter, open mouthed and leaning forward. He’s kissed enough people to know what asking for more looks like, and Peter is asking for more. And it’s not like he has options here. So he gives him more, diving back in, kissing him for real this time, lips to lips, hands on the side of his face. Then lips parting, tongue getting involved. Peter dives right back, awkward with his arms behind him, but eager, welcoming. Those little whimpers Tony knows from the screen are even sweeter when they’re accompanied by the warmth of his mouth, the taste of spit and something salty.

It’s so good; exactly what he always thought it would be. Need gathers in his chest, rocketing out through his limbs, making him heat up, getting him hard. His doppelganger chuckles, and Tony knows exactly what’s so funny: he’s no better than the man sitting in that chair. The only difference between them is he used to be able to hide it, and now even that’s gone.

They’re interrupted by something solid smacking the side Tony’s head, then dropping to the floor with a thud. Startled, he breaks the kiss and looks at the ground. It’s a bottle of lube. Right. He scoops it up, taking an exaggerated pause, ostensibly to examine the bottle, actually to collect himself.

“Glad to see your rape revenge scheme comes equipped with high quality accouterments.” He knows he’s tempting a worse fate with comments like that, but he can’t resist, because he hates himself—both the version lounging in that armchair, and his actual self. “Being forced to take my protégé’s virginity is one thing, but I would’ve drawn the line at K-Y.”

Peter makes a strangled sound at the mention of his virginity. Tony can’t bring himself to look at his face. Doesn’t want to know if that sound is simple embarrassment, or something worse. He looks at his enemy instead. “I take it hurling this at my head was your way of telling me to get a move on?”

The other him spreads his legs, free hand drifting downward, resting over his cock. Tony wonders if he can feel the touch through his armor. That would be one point in favor of symbiote tech. “I don’t know why you’re asking when you already know the answer.”

Yeah, right. Silly him. He almost makes a quip about how everyone in this room knows how much he likes to talk, but that feels annoyingly self-referential, and it would just be an excuse not to face reality for another few seconds. He owes Peter facing reality.

With a sigh, he turns back to the boy he’s about to—no. He doesn’t want to put a word to it.

Instead of thinking about all the terrible labels he could come up with to describe their predicament, he lets himself take Peter in, just for a moment. Defined muscles, honed by years of swinging through the outer boroughs. Skin that’s as soft as he always imagined, the softness of youth and blessed genetics. Cock jutting up from between his legs, slender and long and throbbing hard, head wet with precome.

Their eyes meet, and Peter gives him a small shrug. “Are you surprised?” he asks. “You saw the videos. You know how I—you know I—that I—”

Tony saves him from having to find a way to finish that sentence by launching into another kiss, this time pushing him down as he goes. Peter follows the silent instruction, falling back onto the couch; Tony goes with him, laying his weight over him. He indulges himself, wrapping his fingers in Peter’s hair and tugging. Peter wriggles and arches in response, moans going up an octave.

Incredible.

“You really are sensitive,” Tony murmurs in wonder, trying to ignore how much of a confession that is. They both know why he’s already aware of that sensitivity. The things he’s seen; the things he never should have fantasized about but did. “It’s incredible.”

The compliment does even more than the hair pulling. Peter chokes on air, dick pulsing against Tony’s stomach. He could probably make Peter come like this, just fingers and words, praise he means with every fiber of his being. He’d like to try, in another circumstance. Without an audience. Not the option on the table today.

Reluctantly, he sits back, leaving a hand on Peter’s chest so he understands to stay in place, not that he has much ability to sit without assistance with his hands tied the way they are. Peter gets the message, lifting his knees. Exposing himself. Openly. Willingly—

No. That’s not right. Not willingly, nothing about any of this is willing. But openly. As if he trusts him.

He runs a hand up Peter’s right thigh, watching his muscles tremble under the touch. Enjoying watching it, which is just proof that Peter’s trust is completely undeserved. Reluctantly, he takes his hand away from that perfect leg to collect the bottle, quickly covering the first three fingers of his hand before bringing the forefinger to Peter’s hole. “Okay, Pete, now I’m just going to need you to—”

The instruction is cut short by his evil twin clucking his tongue. “Nuh-uh, Tony. You’re supposed to be acting out your fantasies here.”

What does—

Oh.

No. Fuck him. _Fuck_ him. No way.

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“It looks like you’re about to carefully and gently open him up. Sweet, loving. But that’s not really what you dream about, is it.”

It’s not a question, but Tony answers like it is anyway. “Sure it is. Some of the time. A lot of the time. Dare I say, most of the time.”

Which. Whoops. Way to confess how often he thinks about this. But the cat was kind of already out of the bag on that one.

“Maybe,” the other him grants, with a falsely generous tip of the head. His hand is now fully grasping himself through his armor. “But it’s not the dream that really gets you going. Oh, come on, you know the one. I want to see that one.”

Tony does know the one. The one where he’s rough, taking Peter with no prep. The one where Peter loves that, so desperate for him it doesn’t matter, wrapping his legs around his waist, panting his name, begging for _more_ , _harder_ , for Tony to consume him. Own him. The kind of fantasy that works when it’s in your head. Where pesky realities don’t get in the way. Realities like the kid is a virgin who, for all Tony knows, has never even had a dildo up his ass.

But weighing that reality against the reality of a madmen with a gun pointed in their direction, it’s clear which wins.

With a sneer at his double, Tony grabs the lube, shoving his sweatpants and underwear down around his knees and slicking up his dick, slathering it. More than he’d normally go for, but it’s the closest thing to relief the kid will get. The worst part is, he’s blindingly, achingly hard. Literal gun to his head, and he wants to fuck Peter Parker so bad the precome is doing almost as much work as the lube. There is something seriously fucked up in his brain.

He catches Peter’s eyes, grasping his knee and giving it a soft squeeze. He hopes it conveys his regret, his affection, his—no, leave it at his affection. That’s as far as he’s willing to take that sentiment right now.

“Hey, kid. I sincerely apologize for every thought I ever had that landed us in this position.”

Peter extends his leg, foot nudging Tony’s side, toes deftly curling at the jut of his hipbone. “I just wish you’d told me sooner.”

“Me too.” He never would have told him sooner, is the thing. Never could have brought himself to. But if he had, maybe this wouldn’t be how Peter lost his virginity. Maybe Peter wouldn’t have been fooled by the razzle dazzle of his twin’s advances. Maybe. Never would’ve happened, but it’s a nice idea. “I’m sorry.”

Peter hooks his left leg around Tony’s back and pulls him forward. He doesn’t move him far, but that simple show of strength is enough to make his dick jerk, adding more precome to the mix. The things he could do with Peter’s powers, if given the chance…

“Come on, Mr. Stark,” Peter encourages, halting Tony’s trip down daydream lane in its tracks, bringing him back to the present. The present, where Peter Parker is stretched out on the couch, waiting for him. Presenting himself.

Tony lets his hand travel from Peter’s knee down to his inner thigh; in response, Peter wraps his other leg around him, encouraging. Yep. This is happening. It’s happening because if it doesn’t they’re going to die, but also because Tony can’t remember the last time he wanted someone so badly. It’s terrible, but feels like he might go crazy if he’s not inside Peter as soon as possible.

He tries not to let his desperation show as he positions himself. “Okay, kid, like I was saying, you have to relax.”

“I’m a virgin, not an idiot.” There’s strain in Peter’s voice, words snappish. “Can you stop wasting time and just fuck me already?” His eyes go comically wide as he hastily adds, “I mean, please. Sir.”

 _Sir_.

Tony swallows back a groan, not wanting to let Peter know how much he likes that. Not when Peter’s eyes dodge, for the briefest moment, to the version of him watching from the chair. The version of him who had forced Peter to call him that. Who humiliated him and hurt him and—fuck, Tony is about to do the same thing, and he’s still _so turned on_.

Without another word, he pushes forward. Despite his bravado, Peter’s body resists, muscles clenching, too strong to be broken by force.

“Come on, Pete,” Tony urges. He wishes he could hold his hand; he settles for leaning forward, planting an elbow by his side while rubbing reassuring circles along his hip with the other hand. Okay, what else? Praise, right. “You’re doing great. You’re so fucking hot.” A kiss to his forehead, his cheek, his neck. “It’s pathetic how often I’ve dreamed about this.”

Something in the touch and the words—or maybe just the time to process—works. Peter’s resistance gives way, and slowly, inch by ecstatic inch, Tony enters the warm tightness of him. And, wow. Forget his dreams—his subconscious is sorely lacking in imagination. It had no idea how good it would feel to be this close to Peter, to be inside him, to hear the little hitching sounds he makes, breath hot on Tony’s cheek. To feel his muscles quiver under his fingers as he pushes all the way in, balls to ass. 

He’d wanted to consume Peter, but it’s really the other way around. In different circumstances, he’d probably say he could die happy like this, buried in him. With actual death on the table, he’s not going to go _that_ far, but it does feel really fucking good.

And Peter likes praise, so he says it, lips against his ear, nose hidden in his hair: “Kid, you feel so fucking good.”

Peter squeaks, high and pained, arches, and—

Holy shit.

A sticky mess fills the space between their stomachs, warm even through Tony’s shirt. Their captor laughs, clearly understanding what just happened. Forget him. He doesn’t get to distract Tony from the fact that Peter Parker just came because of him, because he’s fucking him. His entire body floods with longing; he presses his face into the couch beside Peter’s head, biting his bottom lip to prevent himself from pounding into him.

“Sorry,” Peter whispers.

Tony shakes his head. “I literally cannot express how hot that was, kid.”

“Oh.” He sounds hopeful, maybe even proud. “You can keep going, Mr. Stark. I can—I can take it. I…I want to take it?”

The upward lilt at the end there, the practically visible question mark, would be enough to make Tony stop, in other circumstances. He’s not going to claim to be a better man than he is: balls deep in someone he wants this much he wouldn’t be calling the night quits. But he’d pause, he’d check in, kiss, wait. He can wait, reputation aside. He can be very patient. He’d be so fucking patient if it meant making Peter as happy as possible.

But the situation is what it is, and so he does exactly what their captor wants: he gives into his worst impulses, pulling back in a long slow drag, basking in every second of it before swiftly snapping his hips, shoving back in. Peter moans beneath him, stuttering out, “Yes, please, more.”

Tony’s not sure if he means it, but he takes it as permission, letting go, moving faster. He presses his face into the crook of Peter’s neck as he fucks him, grabbing his hair, inhaling the scent of his sweat, not wanting to see his face. He couldn’t stand it if what he saw there was pain instead of pleasure, if those whimpers, the gasps that come with every thrust, are protests against his roughness.

He chases his pleasure, orgasm building with each stroke. Selfish and too fast, too hard, not how anyone’s first time should be, but at least there’s this: he can feel the end rushing toward him, the want curling to a fever pitch. And this, too: he can give Peter an endless string of babbled praise, every thought he has whispered into his ear. “Amazing, holy fuck, so good, Peter, you’re so good, you’re so perfect, I adore you, fuck, kid, I’ve wanted you so bad—”

He comes with a groan, collapsing forward, finishing with a few shallow thrusts. He lays there, gut churning, breathing heavily, eyes closed, as if keeping the world out will black out the reality of what he just did. The shame of what he took.

He’s so disoriented, drained, that he almost doesn’t hear Peter mutter in his ear, “When he’s out of it, take the suit.”

When he—oh.

 _Oh_.

Tony slowly pushes himself up, trying not to act like anything but an exhausted, post-coital mess. He catches Peter’s eyes; they widen, just a little. He raises an eyebrow in reply.

With a movement that could be a nod or could be nothing at all, Peter turns to look at the other Tony. “I don’t know, that was pretty great. I’m not really sure you’ll be able to top it.”

The beautiful, reckless idiot.

“Is that so, Mr. Parker?”

Tony doesn’t have time to register what’s happening before he’s rudely yanked to the side by a metal coil, tendrils twisting tightly between his arms. In the same moment, Peter is pulled in the other direction, across the room, forced to stumble into their captor’s lap.

Watching himself—basically himself, those blue eyes the only difference—grab the back of Peter’s neck and pull him into a kiss that looks more demanding than pleasurable makes Tony sick. But he forces himself to pay attention, turning Peter’s words over in his head, trying to figure out if there’s a real plan there.

He’s distracted by his mirror’s hand shoving between Peter’s legs. Tony can’t see what’s happening in the space between them, but Peter yelps at the touch, lurching away. The suit pulls him closer to the body he’s attempting to escape; he lets out pathetic little whimpers, squirming as the other Tony continues whatever he’s doing. Suddenly, without warning, he shudders and cries, coming for a second time.

He collapses, limp, probably worn out. But their captor doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up, goes straight into manhandling him around until he’s exposed to the room. The asshole looks directly at Tony as he does it, eyes blazing with amusement, as if he knows precisely how much it will hurt him to see those hands that look exactly like his own pawing at Peter’s soft dick. Peter whines, head falling back, clearly overstimulated. His toes curl in the air, perched too high up on Iron Dick’s lap to get any traction.

“Give him a second,” Tony snaps, for no reason other than a burning need to try, even when there’s no hope. Maybe to say _: that’s not me_. Even after everything, there is a difference.

Steel blue eyes meet his over the top of Peter’s head. “He doesn’t need a second. He’s ready for me.” Peter cries out in pain. Evil Clone’s hand has disappeared between them; he must’ve shoved his finger, still encased in his suit, into him. “See? All worn out, and still open for more. Begging for it.”

Peter is doing no such thing, but a quick slap on his thigh gets him to start. “Yes, please, please, sir, please fuck me.” His voice is just a little too high. False, putting on a show. He lifts his head so Tony can see his face, and there’s an apology there. As if he owes him anything. “Please, show me how much better you are.”

Oh, ouch. It’s an act, it’s clearly an act, so transparent even Iron Douche, smirking at Tony in victory, can’t possibly be egotistical enough to think it’s anything but. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting a little. Which is maybe the stupidest god damn thing Tony has ever thought, and he has thought a lot of very stupid things in his life.

False or not, the other him wastes no time taking Peter up on his pleading, pushing him off his lap with a rough shove. “Hands and knees, sweet thing,” he demands. “Let me see that tight little ass of yours.”

Peter obeys, scrambling to the get himself on all fours on the floor, back arching, ass angled up. From that position, his eyes find Tony’s easily. He still looks like he’s asking forgiveness. Insane. Tony tries to make his expression convey that there’s nothing to forgive, that he’s the one who’s sorry, that he wishes he could reach out and touch, comfort. But he can’t: there are too many feet between them, and his hands are quite literally tied. He can’t do anything but watch as his double settles on his knees behind that perfect figure, armored hands engulfing his waist.

“You know, my suit is quite amazing,” the other Tony muses. He’s observing Peter’s body, but Tony has a feeling this commentary is at least as much for his benefit. “I can feel what it feels, if I want to. It can act as an extension of myself.”

For a heart-stopping moment Tony thinks it’s a threat, a hint that he’s caught onto Peter’s idea, maybe even heard his whisper. But then the suit starts to flow and grow around his doppelganger’s crotch, bulging into the shape of a gleaming dick, longer and thicker than their real one. It is a threat, but a different one.

“Impressive, right?” He curves his fingers around it, showing off how they barely meet. The demonstration of thickness is definitely for Tony’s sake; Peter’s not even looking, head bowed, shoulders scrunched up near his ears, like he’s bracing for what’s about to come. “I don’t like to toot my own horn, except—wait, yes I do. I’m a genius.”

Without warning, he shoves into Peter with one abrupt stroke, letting out an exaggerated moan, loud, pornographic. It makes Tony want to cut his ears off, or maybe never have sex again, so he’s not reminded of it. And yet, it’s not loud enough to drown out the sound of Peter’s strangled sob as he dips forward, arms buckling.

“More than you expected, baby?” The madman is moving, picking up pace already, not giving Peter a chance to adjust. “It’s okay, I know you can take it. I know you’re a whore for it.”

The suit flairs, a new coil slipping between Peter’s legs. Tony can just make out the silver closing around his dick, moving in time to its master’s thrusts. Peter collapses to his elbows, hiding his head in his hands, but he can’t disguise that his cries are transforming into moans.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Tony’s other self says. He plants a hand between Peter’s shoulder blades, bracing himself as he sets a brutal pace, smashing Peter’s face into the carpet. “You love it. You love my cock. You take it so well; like you were made for it. Say it.”

When Peter just whimpers, Tony’s double lifts his hand long enough to smack his ass, metal leaving a harsh red print, and Tony’s cock twitches in interest. He pinches himself. This is the line. He will _not_ be turned on by Peter’s suffering—

Too late. The bastard noticed, amusement written clear across his features. He leans forward and yanks Peter’s head up by the hair so he’s staring at Tony, mouth parted, whimpers not ceasing. Tears shine on his cheeks.

“Tell him,” the absolute monster hisses. “Look at your precious Tony Stark and tell him how much you love my cock inside you.”

“Fuck,” Peter exclaims, and this time there’s nothing fake about the rasp in his voice. He’s winded in a way that means he’s close again. His eyes find Tony’s as he chokes out, “I love it. I love it, Mr. Stark, I love your cock.”

“Good boy,” the other him purs, dropping Peter’s head and somehow, impossibly, fucking him harder. Peter’s gasps get higher, desperate, almost like a wounded animal. “You know you have to ask.”

“Please, sir, can I come?” Peter says immediately.

“Go ahead. Come on my dick, you little cockslut.”

Peter goes stiff, entire body shaking. The other Tony laughs and doesn’t stop, doesn’t give Peter a moment to breathe, doesn’t care that his sounds of pleasure have morphed into pleading. He grabs his hips and pounds into him without pause, ferocious, closer to battery than sex. He goes hard and wild and off pace until he’s roaring as he comes, a triumphant cry of ownership.

He falls back, crouching, panting, eyes shut. Lost, for a moment, in the hedonistic pleasure of it.

A moment is all Tony needs.

He closes his own eyes, calling to the suit, mind pulling at the connection he’d sensed last time. He has no idea how this works, but he knows it has to. It _has_ to. Peter trusted him with this, and any other path leads to death.

The suit doesn’t come easily, doesn’t smoothly transfer from evil owner to merely-morally-compromised contender. But it does feel him. It reaches back, curious, confused, torn between what it knows and this new mind.

 _Come on_ , Tony begs it. _Let us go_.

The cuffs at his wrists loosen, almost slack enough to escape. It can’t last, they only have a few seconds—

“What the hell—?” That’s his own voice, coming from across the room: his other self catching on. But the rest of his comment is drowned out by a crash, and then a pained yell.

Tony’s eyes rip open to see Peter has managed to leap free of his bindings. He’s clutching a long piece of metal in his hand. Lying at his feet, slumped over, bleeding from the head, is the other Tony.

Tony blinks at the scene, trying to put it together. The small table next to the chair has fallen over. Oh—that’s where the metal is from: it’s a table leg. Damn, Peter worked fast.

To Tony’s surprise, the suit suddenly slithers off the prone body and forms around him instead. Apparently with only one of them awake, its choice is easier. To his relief, it doesn’t start squeezing him to death or something, but it still feels wrong to be inside it. Unsafe, unclean, like wearing someone else’s skin. He opens it, stumbling out.

Peter is still standing there, clutching that table leg like a baseball bat. Naked. Watching him. Waiting.

“Peter…”

If he’s supposed to have more to say, then that’s another thing you can add to his list of failures.

Peter tosses the table leg to the side.

“I’m going to take a shower and find some clothes,” he says. He sounds shaky, but no shakier than he normally does after a fight. Or, at least, then he did after a fight when he was sixteen. Tony doesn’t actually know what he sounds like after a fight these days. That’s a funny thought: he knows what Peter sounds like while he’s having sex, but not after a fight.

Okay, funny isn’t the right word. It’s not the right word at all.

“Yeah, okay,” Tony agrees, feeling useless. He wishes he had something to occupy his hands, which flail pointlessly at his sides. “Makes sense.”

“And while I do that, you should put on pants, get F.R.I.D.A.Y. back up, and call S.H.I.E.L.D.,” Peter adds patiently, as if talking to a small child. Which, rude. Rude, but fair, given that none of that had occurred to Tony yet. “And stay by the suit in case that asshole wakes up.”

***

Given that S.H.I.E.L.D. literally has a unit in the very tower they’re standing at the top of, the asshole does not have time to wake up. In fact, they get there so quickly Peter is still hidden away in a guest room when they arrive.

It’s a little touch-and-go at first, what with there being two versions of Tony and no obvious way to distinguish them. Fortunately, the blue eyes—which one agent delicately examines by pulling the inert figure’s eyelid open—and a quick call to Fury who, like the paranoid godsend he is, still remembers the in-case-of-emergency password they established nearly a decade ago, convinces everyone Tony’s the real deal. The bad guy is quickly put in cuffs and the suit in custody, and Tony suddenly feels a lot safer.

Unfortunately, safer does not mean not annoyed. There are a lot of questions. A _lot_ of questions. And it turns out it’s kind of hard to answer questions with his thighs coated in lube and his mind buzzing with memories—and that’s before Peter reappears, hair matted, one of Tony’s AC/DC t-shirts clinging to his wet body. When he catches Tony’s eyes, his are rimmed red, the clear aftereffect of sobbing.

Whatever answer Tony was giving—he’s not really listening to himself—dies on his lips. “Okay, we’re done here,” he says, holding up a hand to cut off the wave of protests. “I promise you can debrief me all day tomorrow. But I’ve just spent a month in a torture basement I didn’t even know this tower had—I’m looking at you guys on that one—so for today, I get to say enough is enough.”

Despite this very correct point, it still takes a few minutes of shuffling and an inevitable final round of questions before the room clears. Peter hovers in a corner the whole time, tapping on his phone and, as far as Tony can tell, doing his best to seem invisible.

Tony shoos the last agents into the elevator and turns. It’s just him and Peter, now, with half a room between them. He glances at the couch, the broken table, that chair that he’s going to need to burn tomorrow. “Want to move this to the kitchen?” he suggests. “I have no idea what kind of food my evil twin keeps stocked, but I’m not really digging the vibe in here.”

It’s probably not what he should say, too flippant, but Peter nods. “I ordered food while you were talking to those guys,” he says, waiving his phone. “Cheeseburgers and fries will be here in ten minutes.”

He—he ordered food. He ordered them cheeseburgers. Peter doesn’t even like cheeseburgers that much, he teases Tony about them all the time.

Tony feels a lump form in his throat. No, he is not choking up. He is _not_.

He turns on his heel and rushes into the kitchen, distracting himself with finding glasses, filling them with ice, water. It’s not a task that takes a long time, but he stretches it out. He needs to address what just happened, he knows he can’t avoid it, but he still has no idea what to say. He’s supposed to be the adult in this situation, and he has no idea.

When he finally turns around, Peter is perched on a stool at the large granite island that dominates the room. Tony slides a glass over to him, electing to lean against the counter, keeping the slab of stone solidly between them.

“So,” he says after a beat. “I’m pretty sure I owe you a thank you.”

Peter takes a long sip from his glass, hiding his expression. When he puts it down, his face is blank. “I guess.”

“You _guess_?” Tony shakes his head in disbelief. This kid. “You were the one with the plan that saved our asses. And why do I have a feeling that idea wasn’t entirely spur of the moment?”

Peter sputters in surprise, but doesn’t say anything. Yep, thought so.

“You provoked him on purpose, didn’t you?” Tony prods. “You figured out I was alive, realized I could probably connect to the suit, and got us in the same room. Am I wrong?”

Peter’s eyes drop. He sinks back into the chair, curling into himself as if he’s being yelled at. Probably because Tony practically is yelling, tone harsh with retroactive fear. He takes a deep breath, trying to sound less like he wants to murder the kid for being so reckless as he adds, “How did you get him to do that? How did you know he wouldn’t just kill you, or me?”

“It’s not like it was my first choice,” Peter replies defensively, spinning the glass between his hands, pointedly not looking at Tony. “But when he caught me trying to find where you were I had to come up with something. And, I mean, you saw how he was about comparing you guys. It wasn’t very hard to get him to want to prove that he was better at…um. You know.”

Is he blushing? He is, he’s blushing. An hour ago he was begging Tony to fuck him, and now he’s shy.

“Right.” Tony’s palms are sweaty. He wipes them on his pants, suddenly feeling very grimy. He should shower, too, but he’s hungry, and he doesn’t really want to leave Peter alone. “Well, that was completely idiotic, but thank you. You saved my life.”

Peter’s lips curve at the corners, the barest hint of a smile. “No problem.”

A stillness falls over them, silence that isn’t fraught, but isn’t exactly comfortable, either. Before Tony has time to figure out the best way to fill it, F.R.I.D.A.Y. breaks the spell to announce their food has arrived. Peter springs to his feet, practically sprinting out of the room to answer the penthouse door.

So. This is going…something. Well? Terribly? Tony really has no idea. He gets plates. Distracting himself is the name of the game.

They eat in silence. Tony stays standing, bent over the counter, eyes on the food. The cheeseburger is amazing. Beyond. Best he’s had since after Afghanistan. Kidnappings suck, but at least they let him really appreciate the miracle that is cheeseburgers.

When he’s done, he forces himself to look over at Peter, whose burger is only half finished. He’s staring at Tony, and flushes at being caught. “Sorry.”

Tony sighs, cleaning his hands with a paper napkin as he works up the courage to reply, “Kid, I’m the one who should be apologizing.”

Peter shakes his head, morose. Defeated. “No. I’m the one who didn’t notice. For a _month_ , Mr. Stark. More! I’m such an idiot. I thought…but then he…and I—” There are tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. He glances down, picking a few seeds off his burger bun. “I was really stupid.”

He’s blaming himself, taking on a burden he doesn’t deserve. But that’s Tony’s favorite move, and he has a lot more practice at it. No way is he letting Peter carry this guilt when it rightfully belongs to him.

“Pete, no,” he insists. “You were the only person in my life who even had an inkling. A clue. He showed me videos of everyone else, drinking, laughing. He had them all fooled like it was nothing.” He picks up a stray fry, twisting it until it comes apart in his hand. There are a lot of awkward conversations in his future. A lot of people who are going to be apologizing to him. Sounds exhausting. “You’re the one he had to pull out all the stops for. You got all the bells and whistles, and you still figured it out. That means something. It means…it means a lot to me.”

Peter blinks at him, apparently absorbing. Then, without a word, he slips from his stool and pads around the island until they’re standing face to face. He takes Tony’s hand, holding it loosely; hesitant, as if he’s not really sure it’s the right thing to do. Tony laces their fingers together. It is, it’s the right thing to do.

“ _You_ mean a lot to me,” Peter says, quietly. “I mean, I guess you know. You saw—You know. That wasn’t how I wanted you to find out.”

Tony decides now is not the time to point out he’d pretty much already been aware of Peter’s feelings. Maybe that would make him feel better, but maybe not. They can have that conversation another time. They have other ground to cover right now. “If it makes you feel any better, that _definitely_ wasn’t the way I wanted _you_ to find out.”

Peter clutches his hand tighter, lifting his chin, face lighting up. “So you…that was…that was real? You really…? Me?”

Wow. The fact that he still has any doubt about that at all means he is either ridiculously insecure, or he has Tony on far too high a pedestal.

Either option should make Tony hesitate. He could grab the opening Peter just left, try to thread the needle of letting him down without crushing him. But Tony’s never been very good at threading needles, and he’s even worse at denying himself something he wants after he gets a taste. And, well. He’s a terrible human being for thinking this, but— _fuck_ , what a taste it was.

He nods. “Yeah, Peter. That was real. I really, you.”

Suddenly, Peter’s arms are around his neck. The surprise of it knocks Tony’s breath away; it takes him a moment to recover, to remember how to make his own arms work, hooking them behind Peter’s back.

“Can I stay here tonight?” Peter asks into his shoulder. “Not to…obviously. But just. I don’t really want to go home.”

Tony resists the urge to kiss the top of his head; he’s not clear on if they’re there yet. He brings a hand to Peter’s hair instead, stroking it. “Of course, whatever you want. There’re plenty of guest rooms.”

“Oh. Yeah, okay.”

He can hear the disappointment in Peter’s voice, and every nerve of his body cries out against it. No. He will not be responsible for a single solitary second of Peter being upset. Not tonight. Not for as long as he can help it. “Or,” he adds hastily, “you can sleep in my room. If that’s…if that’s what you want.”

Peter’s head snaps up, nose brushing against Tony’s cheek, rubbing against his beard. It tickles a little. Tony wants to feel that tickle every day, all the time. “Really?”

On second thought, yeah, they’re there. Tony kisses Peter’s cheek. “Yeah, kid, really.”

***

They’re quiet as they clear the dishes, but this time it’s the silence of exhaustion, nothing uncomfortable about it. Peter keeps glancing at Tony and grinning, delighted. Giddy, almost. Tony can feel it working under his skin, happiness infecting him, making him feel, for fleeting, irresponsible seconds, that this was all worth it. As if it will be as simple as flipping a switch: replace the bad Tony with the good one and everything’s okay. As if there’s that much distance between the models.

Tony knows better. Peter’s healing powers don’t work on wounds like this. The list of Tony’s failings, his flaws, the many ways that man in S.H.I.E.L.D. custody is exactly him—none of that is gone.

But he also knows this: whatever else he craves, whatever the dark crevasses of his mind cook up, whatever his weaknesses, what he wants more than anything is to keep seeing that smile. To earn it, as often as possible. He never wants to be the reason Peter’s eyes are rimmed red with tears again.

He’s not going to be able to live up to that. But fuck, he’s going to try, and maybe that counts for something. Maybe, he even dares hope as Peter practically skips across the room, slipping their hands together again, maybe it can count for a lot.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, feedback is highly appreciated <3
> 
> Re-dated because it was anon for an exchange and now revealed. Sorry if you’ve seen it already!


End file.
